


Room 12B

by indiachick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1782337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiachick/pseuds/indiachick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very randomfic about inventorying the bunker and finding an invisible bird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Room 12B

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Bunker Inventory COmment Meme ](http://spn-bunker.livejournal.com/68933.html) at spn_bunker on LJ.

ROOM 12B

Upon primary inspection, this room seems to be rather heavily protected: Devil’s Trap and all the works. Got Dean to break open the padlock, noticed the piece of red tape on top of the door too late [See: Storing System: Color Codes, Box 215A] Door-handle trips overhead sprinkler— presumably holy water—Dean says ‘salty’. Electrical bulbs faulty. Four shelves, numbered. Could not find file-boxes specified. Possible removal post-1958. [See: Lost Years, Box LY1]  
  
CATALOGUE: SHELF 213  
  
\- 7 locked boxes, with spell-work on them, presumably cursed objects  
  
\- 1 open box with a key. There must be a lock. Considered it could be the key to the box, but the box shows a lack of keyholes  
  
\- 1 taxidermied heron, with no eyes. Heavy; produces tinkling sound when shaken with extreme and needless violence [see: Dean Winchester, File 2013-1]  
  
\- 1 phonograph, perfect-condition, encased in a steel-lidded glass box. Needle appears to be turning continuously on an unlined record. Casing appears to be magically soundproof  
  
\- 5 daguerreotypes of men in suits and/or priestly garb, circa 1940, presumably the Men of Letters’ yearbook photos  
  
\- 16 books, ravaged, spines splintered, dried blood on pages   
  
\- 23 glass bottles, containing bloated biological specimen. Tentacles observed. Nothing seems to be alive  
  
\- 1 oak table, splintered through the middle, lying on ground, atop which rests  
  
\- 1 metal cage, large, covered with blue-cloth. Lock fell open while removing cloth. Something got out. There was a sound like wings. [See: WEIRD!!!, Box 223C; Dean says: "Oh, shit."]

*

 

“There’s no bird, Sammy.”  
  
Sam scowls rather spectacularly at Dean: he knows, he can see himself reflected on the TV, smeary and kind of fuzzed at the edges. They’re sitting on Dean’s weirdly bouncy bed, a rainbow dazzle of playing cards between them. It’s one tequila shot for every game lost, and Sam’s losing.  
  
“There was one. I heard it,” Sam says, and his eyes feel too big for his face. “Two of clubs.”  
  
“Ha!” snorts Dean, happily. He slams his hand of cards on the bed and points a wobbly finger at Sam. “You lose. You suck at this.”  
  
Sam makes a frustrated little noise. He can’t even remember the rules of this game. He’s been yelling things off the top of his head for the past hour or so, and now he can’t feel his hands.  He stares at his fingers, trying to determine if they’re still attached to his hand, and Dean flicks a card off his forehead. It kind of hurts, in a tiny way. Like a little  _ping_  of hurt _._ Or something.  
  
“Wow, look at my aim.”  
  
“You’re a horrible person.”  
  
Dean laughs, easy. “You’re drunk.”  
  
“You’re a total dick. Hey, that’s mine!”  
  
Dean drowns the last of the alcohol and makes a stupid bleary face at Sam. “I don’t like this game anymore. Loser gets all the perks.”  
  
 _Ha_ , Sam thinks,  _as if you never had a shot._  “We should be looking for the bird.”  
  
“There’s no bird!”  
  
But there was one, Sam is pretty sure. He heard the wings. It spooked him and he slammed into a table and his tailbone still hurts. Dean, who’d been standing at the doorway evil-eyeing the salt sprinklers, had even ducked.  
  
“We’d see a big fucking bird if it was flying around the bunker, I’d like to think,” says Dean, frowning. He gets off the bed and ambles to the door, all his hair sticking up stupidly and making Sam grin.  
  
“Not if it’s an invisible bird.”  
  
This is, Sam thinks, a very probable scenario—considering that they’ve the King of Hell in the dungeon and until recently, also had the Wicked Witch in a bottle down there in the room with the wheezing ENIAC.  
  
Dean’s eyes practically bug out of his face. “An  _invisible_  bird? Whoa, boy. Don’t need to be giving you any more drinks.”  
  
“Say there _is_ one,” Sam says, also staggering to his feet. The floor feels undulating, like beach sand. Everything is sparkly around him, the light from the bulb fracturing at the corners of his eyes. “What’s your contingency plan, Dean?”  
  
Dean frowns. “Hey, man,” he says, mouth pulling down at the corners as he looks at Sam, “You can’t use them, like, big words. You don’t use them big words to a drunk guy. It’s mean. You’re just mean.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sam says, flippantly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tiny Brain.”  
  
Dean looks confused, his eyebrows hiking as he processes this. Then his eyes get huge and he scowls, jabbing a thumb in the general direction of  _outside_. “That’s it. Get out. Go to your room and—and think about your behaviour.”  
  
Sam flips him the finger and grins as he walks into the hallway. Out there in the dark, with only a small cone of light springing out  
through Dean’s door, his grin wavers.  
  
“Dude, there really  _was_  a bird,” he mutters, but Dean’s already crashed into his bed, clothes and cards and all. Sam closes his door—he’s very considerate even when he can’t stand straight, unlike  _Dean–_ and then he shakes his head and hopes he can find his room. The Library seems too big tonight, and it’s not like he knows if the bird has a taste for tall drunk guys or not.  
  


 


End file.
